


Like Humans Do

by igrab



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 22:44:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4684094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igrab/pseuds/igrab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He needs to get to Skyhold and <i>do</i> something, for once. Before he loses track of which voice is his own again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Humans Do

**Author's Note:**

> Cullen isn't even in this chapter. I don't know why this has chapters. I'm just going to keep writing until it's all out. Why my brain decided that _this_ is the Dragon Age fic I flop my way into the fandom with, I have no idea.
> 
> Warning, I actually have no idea where this is going. Stay tuned for more fresh nonsense.

Hawke leaves Skyhold a genuinely colder place, both due to the seasons turning and the sheer power of his generosity. A truly kind person, despite everything he'd seen, and before he heads to Weisshaupt he insists that Varric send out letters, telling his friends he's okay, urging them to come home. That he misses them, Isabela in particular, of course. He tries to get his friend to write poetry for her, to which Varric flat out laughs, but that's just the sort of person Hawke is, sometimes. Unflinchingly earnest, as though he can make his friends into good people if he just believes hard enough.

Unfortunately, it has an annoying tendency to work.

Anders can't follow him to Weisshaupt. He just can't. But after the letter, he can't just hide, either. Everyone and their mother has been trying to fix the world, it seems, and while he doesn't regret what he did, or what happened because of it - and he firmly insists that if he hadn't done something, someone else would have - the fact still remains that his actions were the catalyst that led to the war, which led to the Conclave, which led to the Breach. An outcome that benefits no one, but what has he done to help? Nothing.

So it is on sluggish, but determined feet that he moves toward the Frostbacks, leaving his poor excuse for a hiding place in the ruin of Vigil's Keep. Where he'd almost died, if not for the timely intervention of his former friend. _Justice_. Or, as he liked to call him these days, _The Ever-Vigilant Lord of Bad Ideas_.

He sincerely, bitterly wishes he could've died there, at the Keep. It would have been poetic. People would have cried. At least two. Maybe even three. And hey, without his map of the Deep Roads, maybe Hawke and Varric would never have found the red lyrium idol, and none of this horrific shit would happened at all. Yes, it would have been for the best all around.

 _But the mages would never be free_ , says the Ever-Vigilant Lord.

Refugees in Kirkwall would have died, too, he lost track of how many lives he'd saved.

_And the mages would never be free. Their suffering would continue in silence. No one would listen. No one would care._

He needs to get to Skyhold and _do_ something, for once. Before he loses track of which voice is his own again.

It rises up out of the mountains like something out of a dream, too big to be real, and it seems utterly ridiculous that such a place could have remained hidden for so long. He isn't the only one clamoring for entry - he's reminded of Kirkwall, of the waves of refugees pressing against the gates, but here there is someone listening. A great many someones, in fact, and it isn't long before he's able to tell someone that he's a friend of Varric Tethras, no, he's not just saying that, here's the letter he wrote me, ask him yourself if you don't believe me, and Anders figures the security is likely a good thing, but isn't actually sure if Varric won't just kick him out on his ass again. But then, there are worse things. Three words, and he'd have a steady supply of work. It would be so easy. _I'm a healer_.

But that would be running. Or is that what he's doing now, putting off helping with a useless conversation? Maker, he's run from so much that he can't even tell any longer.

"Blondie," comes a familiar voice, and Anders doesn't except the sharp twinge in his chest. Apparently, despite all that's happened, he still _misses_ them, misses those brief months wandering the Wounded Coast and almost feeling happy. "Wasn't sure you'd get the letter."

"I got it," he says. His throat feels wounded, too. "I... couldn't go to Weisshaupt."

"Obviously," Varric responds, and Anders had actually forgotten, somewhere along the line, that he had once been a Grey Warden, that he would have once run screaming from the thought of getting close to even a Warden outpost, let alone the actual headquarters of the whole operation. And now, he'd only thought of Hawke.

"I want to help," he gets out through the pain and weight in his chest, and something about that strikes the dwarf as funny, apparently. Anders narrows his eyes.

"Sorry, it's not - " he chuckles. It's a strange and wonderful feeling, seeing Varric laugh. "...When Adaar and the others get back, you'll see."

He's happy, Anders realizes, slow like moving through treacle. Amidst all of this chaos, he has found something that makes him _happy_.

"In the meantime," Varric continues, a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth, "we could use you in the infirmary. Strangely enough, healing isn't a strong point for most of the mages we collected from Redcliffe."

So he goes. He does his thing, and within a few days, the rhythm and energy of healing starts to heal him, too. Unlike Kirkwall, he is not alone. Unlike Kirkwall, these refugees have a cause, something - some _one_ \- to believe in. They smile at him, and for the first time in what must be years, he smiles back.

Then the Inquisitor and her party return.

Perhaps the first thing Anders notices is the way Varric stands to attention, almost rising on his tiptoes, and he knows with a kind of clarity that whatever sparked that change in his friend is out there, with them. The second is that, somehow, despite the way no one has been able to shut up about her, he hadn't realized the Inquisitor was a _qunari_.

Third, that is the most ridiculous hat he has ever seen in his life.

"Seeker!" Varric calls out, his voice equal parts fond and teasing, and the woman to the left and a little behind the qunari gives him a fantastic scowl. "How were the ruins?"

"Ruinous," she says, voice dry as bone, and, well. That's that, then. He finally found someone who can compete with a crossbow.

He feels that twinge in his chest again, and it's just as unexpected. Really? Must he agonize over every little thing? Not content to feel guilty about everything he's ever done, or not done, or indirectly caused to happen, he must now sour his friend's happiness by feeling _unloved_? Might as well shove some lyrium in his skin and call himself Fenris. Which would probably kill him. Perfect.

"You aren't responsible," says a soft and sudden voice, and it almost punches a shriek from his chest. Hat boy is in front of him now, the brim perilously close to his nose.

"I'm sorry?" He genuinely has no idea what he's just said, or why.

The hat speaks again. "You did what you had to do, to resolve a terrible situation. There was no right answer. No way to save everyone. You were hurting."

The world narrows, for a moment, to a boy in a hat saying things he has no right to say, not to him, not to anyone. But in the same moment, the world parts open, and the words lay themselves gently against the bare heart of his soul.

"I," he says, and his throat sticks.

The hat tips to one side, tilts up. Eyes both vacant and piercing look up at him, and Anders is inexplicably relieved that what lies beneath is comely and uneven. Imperfect. "Oh," he breathes, like he's found something. "I almost didn't recognise you."

* * *

The last time he asserted himself, everything went wrong. He cannot help the comments he makes, at times, but since Kirkwall he has mostly tried to keep to himself, away from the volatile emotions of the human being he inhabits. He has heard of the physical world warping the spirits of the Fade (Anders has, he corrects himself, Anders, not you, the memories you claim aren't _yours_ , it isn't _just_ ) and for a time he thought himself immune, protected in his skin caves. These days, he knows better.

It's a testament to how much they've both changed when it takes him so long to recognise an old friend.

"Compassion," he speaks, with Anders' lips, shock itself bringing him forward. "I... me either."

His friend laughs in his human suit. "Look at us!" he says. "Talking like real people do. Only..." he tips his head again, gives him a curious look. "You're in a cage, and I'm not."

It's another shock to realize he speaks the truth.

Compassion is not possessing a body, as he thought he must be, at first - he simply _is_ , and what he _is_ appears to look like... this. 

And he said, _you're in a cage_.

Anders has taught him that freedom is just. Something that all living beings deserve. He had thought - well, he would have rationalized it. He is not a living being, not the way humans are, so this is what he deserves.

But now, here stands the proof of his ignorance.

He opens his mouth to --

* * *

\-- Anders comes back to himself with a shock as clear and sharp as water. "Forgive me," Varric's paramour is saying, her voice thick with a Nevarran accent. "I thought it unwise to let that continue."

Varric, for his part, breathes a sigh of relief. " _Thank_ you, Seeker. Pretty sure the last time you went all blue and glowy, Blondie, things exploded. Literally."

Anders frowns at him, because, _thanks_. But he can't say he isn't relieved. He hasn't been so thoroughly taken over since - well, since before he started losing track of who was who, and it terrifies him more than he'd like to admit.

"But we were talking," the boy says, and the plaintive note in his voice is childlike, woefully unassertive. Varric's warrior levels him with a stony glare.

"And perhaps you can talk more later - if the mage is willing. And provided I or another templar am keeping a close watch."

Ah. So that was how she'd done it. Strange, that after all this, Anders finds himself grateful.

"Or another Seeker," Varric points out, and the woman - they have yet to be introduced, still - gives a reluctant nod.

"There are fewer of us, but yes."

On the whole, Anders feels more like himself than he has in... a while. Cautiously, he feels around mentally to be sure she didn't actually banish the spirit entirely - though, he would probably not be standing, then. No, Justice is still there, but quiet and unaware, as if asleep.

He takes advantage of this small freedom to try 'sassy' out again.

"You know, you're being quite rude for a host," he says in Varric's direction. "I prefer to at least exchange names before I let anyone suppress me."

Varric snorts, which is a good sign; the woman scowls, which is not. "I am Cassandra Pentaghast, Seeker of the Chantry." It sounds like it's something she's said a hundred times, over and over, until it loses all meaning. For some reason, this makes Varric laugh harder.

"I'm Cole," says the hat.

"And you are Anders," Cassandra continues, while trying to glare Varric into behaving. "I was not aware you had come to Skyhold."

"I prefer to remain as anonymous as possible." He feels himself smile, but doesn't feel it, not like he's been feeling when he smiles at patients. None of them know.

Cassandra doesn't need explanations, but apparently this Cole boy does. "Why?" he asks, leaning in close again. Anders takes a step back.

"Because, despite whatever truth you pretend to know, a great many people blame me for everything from Kirkwall to the Breach itself, and I hate myself enough without any outside help, thank you!"

Perhaps that was louder than he'd intended.

Well.

"I have to go," he mutters, and turns away so he won't have to see whatever expression crosses the faces of those listening. He is so tired, so very tired, of feeling his past weigh on him like stone upon stone. 

I am so tired, he thinks.

_I am so tired._


End file.
